You are a fever dream,
Hiding seasons in your cheek.
The color of your nails,
changing the course of the wind as you go.
With you, Maryam,
each day, a new autumn.
In you, Maryam,
You carry the harvest moon.
I write about love.
Or a word that comes close to it
A prayer?
A promise?
A bargain?
You are the toothache,
After a syrury brook on a hot summer day.
And the burble of the sugary lemon-drink,
You are the longing before it
And the anguish after.
I carefully counterfeit the birdseed in my pocket for your love.
Or a word that comes close to it.
I recklessly call you everything they've already called you.
Or something else that comes close to it.
A forest?
The thud of the big bang?
The dust that touches my forehead every time this body gives in to sajdaa?
Can you tell i wrote about you
even before I knew you?
- @brownsugarmonster / Ayesha













